February 11, 1889 Evening
By the time they reached Bath, it was far too late to catch Inspector Rutledge.
Not wanting to hand the dagger over to just any police constable, Byron and Mira thought it wise to keep the weapon in their possession for the time being.
Since they had some questions about the post-mortem, they decided to pay a visit to Dr. Turpin.
They would have preferred to speak with Mr. English, the coroner, but he had returned home to Bathampton after the inquest.
“This is all highly irregular, Ambrose,” Mrs. Sherard said, as the hired carriage stopped in front of the doctor’s rooms in Brock Street. “Is this how you spend all your days? Flitting from one place to the next in search of clues?”
“When I’m on a case, yes,” Byron said. The group exited the carriage, asked the poor driver to stay once more, and moved up the front steps.
“It’s quite exhausting. Why couldn’t we leave the dagger with the constable at the desk?” Mary said.
“This is the sort of evidence best given to the head inspector.” He gave three raps with the large brass door knocker.
Dr. Turpin’s wife opened the door. “Oh, good evening. My husband didn’t mention we were expecting company.”
“He doesn’t know,” Byron said. “You see, we’re here for, erm . . .” He paused and it occurred to Mira that they hadn’t discussed whether or not to tell Dr. Turpin the truth about their investigative purposes.
“It’s my head,” she said. “I’ve had a pounding ache in it since this morning and, as we were passing your house, I wondered if Dr. Turpin might suggest a treatment for it.”
Mrs. Turpin gave her a soft smile. “I’m sure he’ll be able to do something. He’s just finishing up dinner now, but if you’ll wait in the surgery, I’ll fetch him.”
She directed them into a set of rooms off to the right and left to find her husband. There were enough seats for the women, and Byron stood near the door.
“I’m quite surprised that you are able to lie so easily,” Mary sniffed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be.”
Mira steadied her breathing. “I thought you would prefer to keep your brother’s profession secret from your acquaintances, seeing as you find it so distasteful. But if you’d rather I confess my deception to Dr. Turpin, I can certainly oblige you.”
Mary shook her head. “No. At this point it would be far more disgraceful to reveal the truth. And it certainly isn’t the worst breach of decorum you’ve committed today.”
“Mary—” Byron started.
Mira interrupted him. “You may think what you will about what Byron and I were up to in the garden, but I can assure you it was nothing untoward.”
“Knowing my brother I can believe that. I’m sure he’s much more focused on solving this crime, if there is one, than on your attractions. But the Risewells certainly don’t know that. And on top of that, you had the gall to give Miss Risewell that frightful bouquet.”
Mira bit back a retort, curiosity and embarrassment overtaking her ire. She hadn’t made a mistake, had she? The florist had been incredibly specific in the meaning. She looked over at Byron, her voice uncertain. “Was there something wrong with the bouquet?”
“Well—” Byron was once again interrupted by his sister.
“You didn’t mean it?” Mary laughed. “Of course not. You don’t even know what you said, do you?”
Mira’s stomach dropped. “The florist said that—”
“You ought never to trust a florist. Half the time they are only trying to sell you the more expensive flowers. No, dear, you just gave Theresia Risewell a bouquet that says she should be warned because a dangerous scandal is in her future. And that someone close to her will never see her again.”
A real headache began at the base of Mira’s neck. “I didn’t know.”
“I might be able to respect the choice if it was intentional, but to send such an awful message on accident?”
“That’s enough, Mary,” Byron said. “There is more than one way to interpret flowers.”
“And Theresia didn’t know,” Mira said. “I had to translate it for her.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Mrs. Sherard said. “We can only hope that her mother is also ignorant of the unintended meaning.”
“I doubt that she is,” Mary said. “She’s far too cultured to miss such an obvious insult.”
Mira’s chest tightened. She hadn’t meant it as an insult at all. She turned away from the others, the corners of her eyes burning.
Footsteps sounded down the hall and Dr. Turpin stepped in, his spectacles slightly askew. “Good evening. I usually close up shop by now, but when I heard the Sherards were on my doorstep, I knew I had to make an exception.”
“I am sorry that we have come so late,” Mrs. Sherard said. “Usually I wouldn’t dare to impose, but Miss Blayse has quite the headache.”
Mira swallowed, nodding.
“Any other symptoms? Nausea? Spots in the vision?”
“No. Just a pounding at the back of my neck.”
Dr. Turpin nodded. “How long has it been aching?”
The truth was about five minutes. Or perhaps from the moment she met Mary Sherard.
“Since the inquest,” she said instead. “I’m wondering if it is from the stress.”
“A fair assumption. Do you often get headaches?”
“Not as a rule, no. Though I also haven’t been sleeping well since . . . well, since we found Mr. Treadway.”
“Is that so?”
Mira nodded, continuing the lie. “I keep dreaming that he was stabbed.”
Byron stepped forward. “I’ve told her that is quite impossible. You would have known when you looked at the body, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, and if I had, it would have come up at the inquest. A head wound like the one found on the body is consistent with what one might expect from a fall.”
“And the scratches on him? That couldn’t have come from a knife?” Byron asked.
“No. They weren’t deep enough.”
“See, there isn’t anything to worry about, Miss Blayse,” Byron said. “It was only an accident.”
“Hysteria is only natural after having such a beastly experience,” Dr. Turpin said.
He moved over to one of the cabinets and pulled out a bottle.
“It is likely that all the stress has built up and caused your headache and the nightmares. If you can release the stress, both should go away.” He poured some purplish liquid into a little cup and handed it to her.
“This syrup of figs should help move the process along.”
Mira drank it down. It had a sickly-sweet taste and coated her tongue.
“Thank you,” she said. “I feel quite silly about the whole thing.”
“Nonsense. As I said, it is only natural for you to have an adverse reaction to such dreadful things. And you certainly don’t have the worst case of hysteria I’ve seen, even this week.”
“You mean Miss Harris?” Mary asked.
“Why, yes. From what Admiral Hoddle has told me of her symptoms, if she doesn’t improve soon, I may have to recommend her to an asylum.”
“Surely it isn’t that bad,” Mira said, real nausea coming over her at the thought of Maureen in an asylum.
“It would be for a very short time, just to rehabilitate her. The Mendip hospital in Wells is very nice, so I’ve heard, and I’m personal friends with Dr. Wade, the superintendent. Maureen has so many bad memories. This whole ordeal with Mr. Treadway has only made things worse.”
“I still can’t believe it myself,” Byron said. “From what I understand, he had survived so much in the Sudan. Sent home because of a leg injury. Then to die from a fall like that, by pure accident. Poor fellow.”
Dr. Turpin frowned. “A leg injury?”
“You seem surprised.”
“A little, yes. He never complained of his leg when hunting, and surely the motion of a horse aggravates leg injuries. And I don’t recall seeing any damage or scarring on the leg during the post mortem.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Byron said. “I never talked to the man myself.”
“Could be.” Dr. Turpin returned the bottle to the cabinet. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, I think my head is already starting to feel better,” Mira said, truthfully.
“I’ll see you out then.” Dr. Turpin opened the door to the surgery and the group filed out.
“Give it a few weeks and you’ll be right as rain.
If you keep having the headaches and nightmares past the end of the month, you ought to see someone about it.
” They reached the front door and pleasantries were exchanged on both sides.
Just as they were about to leave, Dr. Turpin said, “A moment, Mr. Sherard? I have a question for you.”
Byron lingered at the door while the women moved down to the carriage.
Mrs. Sherard walked next to Mira. “That was quite the performance.”
Mira didn’t know whether that was a compliment or an insult. “Thank you?”
“Yes, it takes so much talent to deceive others,” Mary said. “Did your family teach you?”
Mira stepped up into the carriage. “I learned it from your brother, actually.”
Before Mary could respond in outrage, Byron came to meet them, brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong?” Mira asked.
“Nothing,” he said, though he clenched his jaw. “He asked whether or not we had laudanum at home.”
“Laudanum?”
“He suggested I tell Mrs. Renaldi to administer some to help you sleep.”
“We have a bottle if the Renaldis do not,” Mary said.
“Why wouldn’t he have suggested that when we all were together?” Mira asked.
“He thinks it would be better to do it without your knowledge, lest you get upset about it.” Byron shook his head in disgust.
Mira’s stomach twisted, though not from the medicine. “I certainly hope that isn’t the treatment he suggested for Miss Harris.”
***
After a tense drive, the group arrived back at Davenguard and were welcomed by the Renaldis and Walker, who were playing cards in the drawing room.
“Have you eaten?” Mrs. Renaldi asked.
“I’m afraid we haven’t,” Mrs. Sherard said.
Mrs. Renaldi stood, leaving the room. “I’ll get some supper sent up for you then.”
“How were the Risewells?” Liza asked, looking up from her cards.
“Quite well,” Mira said.
“Did Castel return to Royal Crescent?” Byron asked.
Walker shook his head. “He left for London, a little after you left for the Risewell’s.”
“London?” Mira asked.
“He said something about needing to pop into the Foreign Office, I think.”
Byron frowned. “How strange . . .”